


The Risk I Took Was Calculated (but Primus, I am bad at math)

by not_whelmed_yet



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Assassination Attempt(s), Basically, Dratchetparty 2020 (Transformers), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prime!Drift, Romance, inspired by The Queens Thief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26574361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_whelmed_yet/pseuds/not_whelmed_yet
Summary: Ratchet's not special or anything, everyone hates the new Prime. He'd promised Optimus that he'd serve his replacement and he intends to keep his promise, it's just....did it have to be Deadlock?And why does the Prime keep staring at him?
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Comments: 45
Kudos: 167
Collections: Lynn's Flashfiction & Oneshots





	The Risk I Took Was Calculated (but Primus, I am bad at math)

**Author's Note:**

> I had the best of intentions of drafting some ficlets for [DratchetParty](https://twitter.com/DratchetParty) in advance. I said to myself, "Lynn, when you finish drafting Taking Care Chapter 10, you can start some ficlets in advance."
> 
> _And then I didn't._
> 
> Taking Care Chapter 10 is going quite well, it's nearly done, but anyway, I rolled up this morning with nothing written and no prompt and then somehow this idea devoured my day. It is very much inspired by my favorite book series, The Queen's Thief, so if you read this and like the vibe you might love those books. I have made little winks to some of the dialogue but I have spoiled nothing 😄

Ratchet served the Prime. He had sworn an oath to do so, to preserve the life of the protector of their lands and the leader of their people.

He’d sworn no oath against hating him.

Everyone hated the Prime, so it’s not like Ratchet stood out for his dislike. When Optimus had offered to pass on the Matrix as a gesture of peace to end the war, everyone had favored someone to take on the mantle. There was no neutral party to make that selection, so it had been left to the ‘gods’. A series of trials, devised and constructed by strategists and engineers from the Autobots, the Decepticons and the Neutral Alliance. Whomever returned alive with the Matrix would be considered ‘chosen’ by Primus and would be tasked with leading the planet in its fledgling steps towards peace along with the Council.

Ratchet had hoped Thunderclash would take that position - he was suited to leadership, he had the respect of both the Autobots and the Neutrals. He’d have been honored to serve Thunderclash as the physician to the Prime.

Instead, they had _Deadlock_. Drift, he called himself now, Drift Prime, as if a simple shift of letters could erase a million years of history. Drift wasn’t respected by anyone, except for his skill at killing people, in his former role of Decepticon assassin. Even the Decepticons were rumored to be horrified by the selection, with most factions having pulled for Deathsaurus, Shockwave or Soundwave. Drift was gutter forged and knew nothing of diplomacy or scholarship; he was notorious for his temper and vindictiveness; like most Decepticons he’d joined the war out of pure self-interest.

Ratchet had only sworn to serve him because Optimus begged him to do so, one last act of loyalty for the true Prime of Cybertron. Optimus had pointed out that the peace treaty hinged upon the survival of the Prime, at least for the ten years promised before the Trials could be issued again. Now Optimus was far from reach, on a spiritual journey accompanied by Megatron to discover the fate of the Knights of Cybertron. Spiritual nonsense, but nonsense that got two of the most contentious figures of the war far from sight and which the public - desperate for salvation - had eaten up.

So, yeah. Lots of people hated Drift, even in the palace. But Ratchet felt like more to complain about than most of them, because Drift simply would not stop staring at him.

At state dinners, if Ratchet looked away from his dining companions, Drift would be there, staring at him. If Ratchet tried to stare back Drift would look away. But the next time he checked the head of the table, he’d be watching again.

At council meetings, if Ratchet was forced into attendance, Drift seemed to spend his time alternating between inspecting the ceiling tiles and staring at Ratchet. He never looked at his notes or the members of the council.

Even at the court dances, Ratchet would feel a prickle at the back of his neck and often turn to catch the blue optics of the Prime. The dances were a tedious pablum enjoyed only by the members of the public who could watch on their windscreen instead of being forced into attendance. And perhaps Blaster and Jazz, who often joined the group of musical performers.

Ratchet didn’t think Drift enjoyed them, though he certainly put more effort into the dances than any other part of his duties as Prime. The business of weaving and spinning and strutting about was probably something he was better suited towards than diplomacy. He wove through the crowds, selected representatives from every faction to dance with, never stopping to drink and mingle at the edges of the crowd where Ratchet lingered.

Not that Ratchet wanted to talk to him, of course. Ratchet was hoping to have a purely ornamental role for the next ten years - maybe even shorter if Drift gave up and asked the council’s permission to begin the Trials before the decade was out.

* * *

“I really don’t think he’s as bad as you say,” Rung said, pouring himself another drink before settling down beside him on the terrace. The city twinkled blue and gold beneath them, headlights on the streets lighting up as the evening set it.

“As I say?” Ratchet repeated incredulously. “Who are you talking to that doesn’t think the Prime is ‘that bad’?”

Rung smiled. “If we ignore your emotional attachment to the issue - ”

“My _what_?” Ratchet spluttered.

“He’s really been doing a perfectly good job as Prime, under the circumstances. If the Autobot side of the council - Thunderclash excepted - would stop fighting him cog and gear on every trivial piece of administrative business I think he’d be doing very well indeed.”

“You cannot be serious,” Ratchet said.

“What do you have to criticize about his actual governance, Ratchet?” Rung asked mildly. “Because all I’ve learned so far this evening is that you detest his mannerisms, his choice of clothing, his history, and possibly the ground he walks on.”

“You cannot deny that the cape is absurd.” Ratchet had, admittedly, gone on for perhaps too long about the cape. But the thing was absurd. Optimus had never felt the need to drape himself in silks and swan about like a dandy. Drift had affected the floor-length red garment on his second week and never taken it off since. The only thing worse would have been an actual crown.

“I have no opinion on the cape,” Rung said. “But you have not answered my actual question.”

Ratchet thought back over the last council meeting he’d been forced to attend. “He refused to turn the DJD over to the war crimes tribunal.” Everyone had been upset about that, the air in the room had been charged like a hand grenade with the pin pulled when Drift shot Tyrest down.

“He has been consistent in refusing to hand over any prisoners to the Galactic Council,” Rung said. “Regardless of faction. I hardly think this was out of favoritism with towards the Decepticon Justice Division personally - Tarn was rabid with anger over Drift accepting the role of Prime. It raised him above the status of Megatron, and Prime was always loyal to the mech and not the cause. They remain in prison, it's not as if he handed them pardons.”

“Well maybe I am biased,” Ratchet said, “but _he’s_ certainly been handed a pardon, hasn’t he? And I don’t think he deserved it. Getting to lord over all of us, when he should be sitting in a cell next to Tarn and the rest.”

Rung took his glasses off and stared at them contemplatively. This was a pointless gesture, of course, because Ratchet knew that Rung could see fuck-all with his glasses off. “Do you think he wanted to be Prime?” Rung asked. “Because it seems to me that this is a better prison than you could have built for Drift than any in the Undergrid.”

“Of course he wanted to be Prime,” Ratchet said. “Why else would he have gone through the Trials?”

“Loyalty,” Rung suggested. “I think Drift was very loyal to Megatron. I think Megatron needed someone to take the throne, who had no ambitions of his own, but had enough cleverness and will to hold a civilization together out of sheer loyalty to Megatron’s will.”

“You cannot be serious,” Ratchet said.

“If he wanted to be Prime, then why is he so miserable all the time?” Rung asked.

“That one’s easy,” Ratchet said. “He got exactly what he wanted, then once he had it, realized it didn’t taste as sweet as he expected. And I, for one, am glad our Prime is suffering for the privilege of leading us.”

* * *

Ratchet had been bothered by his conversation with Rung ever since, especially late at nights. Why should it matter why that bastard had sought out the throne? Why should it matter if he was unhappy with the fruits of his labor? That he found his rest disturbed by thoughts of the Prime, all alone and miserable in the vast rooms of his station, was beyond irritating.

He even found himself staring back at the Prime during council meetings, hunting for signs of unhappiness in his thin face. He hated it.

He’d given up on recharging that night and had retreated to his chair by the window. He was reading on his datapad when he saw motion in the his darkened berthroom. A shadow loomed over the empty berth.

Ratchet turned off the screen for the datapad, plunging his study into darkness, but a pair of blue optics had already found him.

“My Prime?” Ratchet asked, stunned to recognize them in the darkness. What in the Pits was the prime doing in his berthroom in the dead of the night? Without any of his security retinue? And without Ratchet having heard or seen him open the door?

“My medic,” Drift answered. He walked slowly towards the doorway to Ratchet’s study, his arms wrapping his cape around like a funeral shroud. “I’m sorry to disturb you so late, but I’m glad I did not have to wake you.”

“Why are you here?” _Was the castle under attack? Had the peace treaty crumbled? Was Drift here to scold him for staring?_

“I am in need of a medic and, as you are my medic…”

“It could have waited until the morning,” Ratchet said. He was already up to get the lights. They bloomed golden over the Prime and his red cloak and the huge pink stain the cloak was hiding.

Drift smiled, almost apologetically. “I’m afraid not.”

Ratchet hurried over to take the mech by the shoulder and steer him into a chair. “What happened? Where are your guards?”

Drift laughed, a painful sound. “Oh, my guards hate me as much as you do. When I’m away from the public eye, they make themselves scarce. They’re probably playing cards upstairs at the moment.” Ratchet lifted away his arms and the red fabric to reveal a knife embedded in Drift’s chest. There was a long gouge in his plating, like some attacker had tried to stab him in the spark but the blow had been driven downwards.

“Who did this?” Ratchet asked again, using the Prime’s ridiculous cape to wipe away some of the fuel around the knife so he could get a better look at it. At least Drift hadn’t tried to pull it out; Ratchet had dealt with more of his share of brave idiots who pulled out a weapon after getting themselves impaled and then leaked to death.

“An assassin,” Drift said, as if assassins were things he dealt with all the time. “I am sorry to inconvenience you, usually I’m better at dodging. I’d been asleep when they…” he waved his hand dismissively, as if that gesture was supposed to convey ‘when they tried to murder me’.

“And do you encounter many assassins, my Prime? Stay there, don’t move.” He got up to fetch his emergency kit.

Drift said, “Not so many.” He then followed this with the alarming estimate, “Maybe one a week or so?”

“And your guard knows about this?” Ratchet demanded.

“I’m not sure,” Drift said. “I usually rely on the palace mortuary to deal with the deceased. I’ve thought about mentioning it to them, but there’s always the chance some of them are in league with whoever’s sending the assassins and I hate to give them the satisfaction.”

Ratchet got the cape off with Drift’s help, the clasps at his shoulders were excessively fussy. Pulling it away, he discovered that the Prime was wearing no less than five blades. Two were fastened at the small of his back, another two strapped to either arm and one along his spine. If the assassin’s knife had been any longer he would have have run into one of them. Ratchet wondered if Drift wore them at all times, he wondered if the soul purpose of the cape was to hide them from view.

He wondered what kind of planet they had, when the Prime had to go about arm and fight off assassins on his own. “Do you want a blocker for the pain?” He asked.

Drift grinned, a surprisingly earnest expression that Ratchet had never seen before on his face. He’d certainly never seen before the fangs that the grin revealed and which made his spark shiver a little with fear. “I thought you might not offer. Yes, please. I’ve had more than enough stoicism for one lifetime.”

Ratchet swallowed his protest that, however much he might have hated the Prime, he wasn’t about to make the mech undergo surgery without a blocker out of _spite_. He installed the blocker in silence, then removed the knife and stunned the capillary lines so they wouldn’t leak while he did the fussy business of welding them back together. At least the knife had missed the fuel pump and the lifecord, otherwise Drift wouldn’t have made it far out of his berthroom.

“I’ve offended you,” Drift said, in response to Ratchet’s silence.

Ratchet swung a magnifying lens over his optic and leaned closer to his work. “I’m a professional. My Prime. Your medical care is my duty, my feelings do not enter into it.”

“A pain blocker is hardly necessary medical care,” Drift said. “It’s an indulgence, if the medic is feeling generous.”

“Maybe in the Decepticon army it was like that,” Ratchet said, barely resisting hissing the word _barbaric_ under his breath. “But not here.”

“Do you expect the wound will cause any mobility issues? I had promised to go on a tour of the rebuilt temple at Tetrahex tomorrow.”

Ratchet had a whole-body flashback of talking to Optimus. “You cannot be seriously intending to travel tomorrow.”

“If I do not go I will need to think of a suitable excuse,” Drift said. “And it will make the envoy from Tetrahex displeased. Everyone else is displeased no matter what I do, but they will enjoy an excuse to be more displeased than usual,” he complained.

“You could tell them you were stabbed by an assassin,” Ratchet suggested.

“Absolutely not.” Drift met his gaze, suddenly deadly serious. “Because the only people who know that right now are you, me and a dead bot. I’m trusting you to keep confidence on this, my Medic, because if they know I’m injured I will surely be dead tomorrow.”

“Then tell your guard to do their damned job,” Ratchet said. “Everyone knows what happens if you die - the war would restart. Nobody wants that.”

“If nobody wants that,” Drift said, “then why do people keep trying to kill me?”

* * *

“You’re wanted by the Prime,” Pharma said from the doorway. Ratchet’s patient froze, mid-sentence through describing their transformation difficulties.

Ratchet’s mind started racing. _Had something happened to the Prime?_ It had been more than a week since Drift’s late-night visit to Ratchet’s quarters, he’d said that he’d been fending off assassination attempts weekly...though perhaps that had been an overstatement of the sort you’d expect from a former Decepticon. An exaggeration. A lie, even, to make Ratchet feel sorry for him.

“Did he say where to meet him?” Ratchet asked over his shoulder. He told his patient, “I’m sorry, I’ll send in one of my assistants to cover this. They’re all perfectly qualified.”

“The Prime asked for you to attend to him in his quarters,” Pharma said, smiling quite salaciously as he followed Ratchet out the door. “I didn’t realize you two were so…close.”

“Very funny, Pharma. You should know better. I’m not close with anybody,” Ratchet said.

Ratchet hurried through the halls maybe more than was dignified. Less than he would have if he’d been called to an actual emergency. Certainly Pharma’s message gave no indication this was an emergency. Ratchet had picked up one of his medkits anyway, just in case the Prime was in need of medical attention.

When he reached the floor where the Prime’s suite was located he found the Prime’s guards. Autobots, all of them, mostly friendly faces. They were sitting on the benches outside the door into the apartment, chatting quietly. He waved at Ironhide and Fervor as he approached. “I was told the Prime requested me?”

“He must have called down to the medical bay directly,” Ironhide said. “Not that I’m surprised, our _Prime_ never misses a chance to avoid speaking with us. Carry on, the door’s not locked.”

Ratchet thanked them and went through the doorway into the apartments of the Prime. It was less opulent than he’d expected, even though he’d known Optimus had done the original decorations. There was a lot of white enamel and the windows were swashed in gold fabric, but it was far less gaudy than the residence of Nominus Prime. The first room was nearly empty, just an entryway into the deeper chambers with benches lining the sides. Probably it was where the guards _ought_ to have been stationed, if the Prime trusted them enough to let them alone in a room with him.

“Hello?” He called.

“In here,” Drift called back. Ratchet followed his voice to a brightly lit room with yellow walls and cerulean blue ceiling tiles. Drift was sitting at a small table by the window, at a table clearly set for a midday meal. There were small snacks laid out on plates, a pitcher of warm spiced energon still steaming and a half empty cup on the table. Ratchet realized only then how late it was in the day, and that he’d neglected to eat earlier.

“As you can see, I’ve invited you here to share a meal,” Drift said, smiling again that toothy smile.

Ratchet said, automatically, “Thank you, my Prime.”

He moved towards the table and Drift slapped his hand over the pitcher, nearly knocking it over. “Ratchet, that was a joke. Don’t touch any of it.”

“Oh.” Ratchet paused. “Of course. Apologies for not noticing your...sense of humor, my Prime. What did you want?”

“My drink was poisoned.” Drift licked his lips. “I may require medical attention shortly.”

“Your drink - could you not have led with that?” Ratchet snarled, throwing himself to his knees to get better access to the Prime’s diagnostic port so he could get a feed. He shoved the infernal cape back - the Prime had been wearing it the very next morning after the incident with the knife, like he had a collection of identical red silk capes, soft as starlight.

“I’m sorry,” Drift said. “I have already been waiting for you quite some time, I didn’t think a moment’s further diversion would be an issue.”

“I would have _hurried more_ if you’d mentioned you’d been _poisoned_ ,” Ratchet hissed. “How much did you drink, do you know what it was and what symptoms have you noticed?”

Only half the glass - _half the glass_ \- and Drift had noticed that the off-flavor resembled less unfiltered energon cut into regular than the scent of a nerve poison he remembered from the war. “Kerax, I think the Autobot’s called it? I’d nearly gotten dosed with it once, during the retreat after the Forced Flood.” His primary symptoms, as he described it, were “an unfortunate amount of pain and paralysis that seems to have gone all the way up to my hips now.”

Ratchet cursed and Drift fucking laughed at him. Ratchet cursed some more. _Kerax? Who had Kerax in this day and age?_ It had been on the list of chemical weapons banned in the peace treaties, all remaining stocks were supposed to have been purged.

Luckily, Ratchet had never purged his antidote supplies. He got out a breath mask to dose the antidote with and fastened it over Drift’s face. Then he dragged the Prime out of his chair to lay across Ratchet’s lap so that his fuel pump wouldn’t have to work so hard pumping fuel vertically to get to his brain module.

“Take a deep breath and hold for a count of ten. Then release and repeat,” Ratchet instructed.

Drift nodded, optics bright to overflowing. With the mask on, at least he couldn’t talk back.

Ratchet had to talk for him instead, running a steady patter to reassure his patient. “You’ll be fine, another twenty minutes and you’ll be just fine,” he said. “I certainly hope you have a plan for dealing with this assassin, whoever they are. You’re supposed to stay alive, you know. I’ll be very offended if you let my hard work go to waste.”

There in that huge apartment, empty except for him and the Prime, the isolation of their ruler finally sank in. The guards outside were close enough to reach with a shout and Drift had sat there, immobilized and in excruciating pain, in complete silence. He didn’t trust his own guards enough to not turn on him. There was no one he trusted, in the entire palace, except for Ratchet.

Ratchet wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve that trust. Maybe Optimus had said something to him, during the ceremony when Drift took the Matrix. Maybe Drift remembered him fondly from that day in Dead End when Ratchet had saved his life. He’d always assumed Drift had forgotten that day entirely - circuit speeder overdoses tended to come alongside anterograde amnesia.

Ratchet might not have liked Drift, but he certainly wouldn’t have taken the role of Prime if it’d been offered to him on a gold platter. Leaving aside the business of assassinations, the thought of having everyone’s eyes on him at all times, of having every person on their planet depend on his governance was a horrifying thought. And if Ratchet had taken the role, at least he could be sure the Autobots would have backed him as loyalists. How in the world was Drift managing?

When he finally released Drift from the antidote treatment, he immediately bundled the mech up in his arms. “And this time you will _not_ be walking around until you’ve had at least one night’s rest, my Prime.”

Drift flushed with embarrassment, but didn’t attempt to struggle out of his arms. “If you insist, my Medic.”

“Where’s your berthroom?” Ratchet asked.

“Oh, it’s...it’s through there,” Drift said, nodding to a door to their left. Ratchet carried him over to a room in rich purple enamel with a berth large enough to fit Thunderclash and three friends on it. It was surrounded in sheer curtains, one of them with a long cut through the fabric. Ratchet shouldered the fabric aside to lay the Prime on his berth. The Prime curled up like a sparkling in the turtling stage, still trying to figure out how to activate their transformation cog.

He looked tiny on that huge berth. “I’ll leave you to your rest, then,” Ratchet said.

“I’ll have to make my excuses to the council,” Drift said. “Bring me the comm from my table, would you?”

Ratchet did, and Drift accepted it with a “thank you”. Then he let the comm fall to the berth beside his face and stared at it morosely.

“You could always tell them the truth,” Ratchet said.

“I wish that I could trust them with that information,” Drift said, then shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

Ratchet stared at him for a long moment. “Why did you decide to be Prime?”

Drift looked up and smiled, a smile entirely without mirth. “Because of my lust for power, of course.”

Ratchet snorted, and left the Prime to his excuses.

* * *

“If you will not bow to reason, my Prime, then you will bow to force.” Tyrest stood up, knocking back his chair at the council table. He threw the badge that was his mark of office onto the table. “I challenge you to a duel.”

Everyone stared at the Prime, sitting slumped in the tall chair at the head of the table. He dragged his optics down from the ceiling to look at Tyrest. He looked tired, Ratchet thought. He looked exhausted. He wasn’t sure anyone else saw it. The Prime looked from Tyrest to his assembled council-members as the audience murmured in excitement. Generally council meetings weren’t the stuff of duels.

“I was not aware…” Drift said, “…that we had established precedent for duels. Was that a part of the treaty that I missed?”

“It’s traditional,” Tyrest insisted. “Stand in defense of your damnable policy or forfeit, damn you.”

Drift ceased looking between his council-members, apparently seeing that no one would protest. Ratchet’s spark was in his throat. Surely this was a joke. What was Tyrest going to do, kill the Prime in a duel in the great plaza outside the palace?

And over this? Tyrest’s proposal had been unhinged, surely the council must see that. Knock-offs might not have all gotten the development environment and foundational skills they should have, but they weren’t “predisposed to moral depravity”. There was no reason to automatically exclude them from service on the council and other government offices.

Drift sighed. “I have appreciated your guidance, though I often have disagreed with you on policy, Tyrest. I do not want to kill you.”

Ratchet thought again to five blades, hidden behind the long cloak of the Prime. Did everyone else watch him dance and feign distraction and forget he had been one of Megatron’s most feared assassins? Tyrest was a lawyer, what could he possibly be playing at.

“It is traditional to use seconds in duels of honor,” Tyrest said.

“Is it now?” Drift said. “I am learning so much today.”

There was a mutter somewhere in the audience that sounded like “guttermech” and Drift stiffened in his seat. “Please do tell me all the traditions for these duels Tyrest. Who shall I fight and where and how?”

After that calamity of a meeting was adjourned, Ratchet followed the Prime and his guards out of the room. Alone in the hallway, he hailed Drift with a yell. “My Prime!”

Drift came to an abrupt halt, the puzzled guards turning to look at Ratchet. Drift pushed through their formation to come face to face to Ratchet. “My Medic, tell me that you don’t also intend to challenge me to a fight to the death,” Drift said, with that mirthless smile Ratchet hated on his face. He never smiled in court and, now, Ratchet realized he never smiled even at the evening dances. He seemed to only smile at Ratchet.

“No, my Prime. But I beg a private audience, my Prime.” Ratchet could see the guards watching him with confusion on their faces, maybe nobody else called the Prime that but what else was he supposed to say? _Drift? My Lord?_ The one seemed overly familiar, the other overly possessive.

Drift glanced aside, like a mech checking his chrono. “Very well, there is some time,” he said. “I was returning to my chambers to prepare, you can accompany me.”

They walked back with the guards. Ironhide fell back to walk alongside Ratchet. “What is this about?” he muttered.

“There is no sacred tradition of dueling,” Ratchet hissed.

“Well don’t tell him that now,” Ironhide replied. “This is our chance to finally be rid of him.”

“You don’t want that,” Ratchet said. At Ironhide’s perplexed face, he said, “Really. You don’t want that. It would be anarchy.”

“The council could appoint an interim Prime,” Ironhide said.

The Decepticons had two votes on the council, two votes of fourteen. They would never accept a Prime chosen by the council. Ratchet abandoned talking treason with Ironhide and let the Drift lead them the rest of the way to the Prime’s apartments. They closed the guards outside in the hall.

“There is no tradition of dueling the Prime,” he told Drift.

“Of course not,” Drift said. “I’m not some unlearned newframe, floundering around in the sewers, who’s never seen the alphabet before.” He unhooked his cape, bundled it in his arms and tossed it to the far side of the room. “I had to _study_ the history of Cybertron to pass the Trials you know. Some of them required reading and writing, even!”

“You could tell him no,” Ratchet said.

“I have already accepted,” Drift said. “And what is the point in pointing out a lie my entire council will confirm?” He reached behind his back to draw the two short swords he had concealed there. He rolled his shoulders, testing the weight of the blades. “If you’re only here to tell me obvious facts, Ratchet, you can go. I have very little time to prepare.”

“Why did you try to become Prime?” Ratchet asked.

“As a poor guttermech, my sole dream in life was to have wealth beyond the wildest imaginations of the richest Senator in Iacon,” Drift lied.

“Why did you become Prime?” Ratchet asked again.

Drift sheathed both swords with a curt motion and glared at him. “I was in love with you.”

Ratchet stared at him. “What?”

Drift jerked up his chin. “I was in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for almost as long as I’ve been alive and I thought that - if only I could get close to you - I thought it would be worth it, just to be near you. I was wrong. You hate me. Everyone hates me and that’s _fine_ but you hate me and it’s worse than when you didn’t remember I existed.”

Ratchet, who’d never had a good sense of timing or the skill of tact, said: “Oh. That’s why you kept staring at me.”

“You. Are. _Dismissed._ ” Drift snarled.

“No.”

Ratchet walked to his Prime and considered him, all of him. He’d been remade when he completed the trials, red and white with a splash of Primal gold. It had been a ploy, everyone said, to distance himself from his past as Deadlock. He looked beautiful.

Ratchet had been surprised to find himself loyal. He’d been surprised to find that he _did_ care whether Drift lived or died. That even if Drift were to peacefully hand over the Primacy, he would still care. He hadn’t even planned on sorting out what those feelings were, because it didn’t matter - Drift was _Prime_ , Ratchet’s feelings about him were entirely inconsequential.

“I don’t hate you,” he said.

“Don’t lie to me,” Drift hissed.

“I don’t hate you, my Prime,” Ratchet said. “Let me be your champion in this duel.”

“What?” Drift staggered backwards. That had shocked him.

Ratchet laid out his case. “Tyrest can hardly kill me - the Autobot faction would be at his throat for it. I assume he has something nasty planned, because nobody could be stupid enough to forget how dangerous you are, especially given how many assassins have gone mysteriously missing. Whereas _I’m_ a known non-combatant so - ”

“No,” Drift said. “I’m not risking you like that. And in any case, they would only think I’d ordered you to do it. You’re notoriously loyal...did Optimus order you to keep me safe, before he left?”

Yes, he had, but that wasn’t the point -

“Even if you do care about me in some way,” Drift said, in a voice that said he didn’t believe such a thing was possible, “that’s what everyone else would believe. That you were only protecting me out of loyalty to your oath. That I had ordered you to die for me - nobody would forgive me if something happened to you. I couldn’t forgive me if something happened to you.”

“Drift, I do care about you, you absolute _gearstick_ \- ” How could he even fathom someone so stupid as to love him, to love him so much that they’d become _Prime_ for a chance to look at him across a room and never say a thing to him about it? Ratchet gave up on trying and stepped forward to kiss Drift.

Drift startled, then sank down out of Ratchet’s arms, falling to his knees. _How had Ratchet fallen for this melodramatic idiot?_ Ratchet wondered, as he followed Drift to his knees to kiss him again.

“But you hate me,” Drift sobbed, throwing his arms around Ratchet’s shoulders. “You hate me!”

“I did,” Ratchet agreed. “But people can change. Even me. Even you.”

And this time Drift kissed him back as they fell to the floor of the white-walled entryway of the Prime’s apartments.

* * *

The plaza in front of the palace was normally filled with tourists and sightseers. Presumably they were here, in the crowd somewhere lining the steps up to the palace, behind the wall made by the guards around the ‘dueling grounds’.

Ratchet followed Drift through, though the guards looked at him peculiarly. It had occurred to Ratchet, as they were leaving, that parts of Drift and his conversation might have been audible from the hallway. Presumably there were rumors flying already. No matter.

Drift was wearing a fresh cape, fastened at the shoulders and curled protectively around his body. The council-members were all here, standing just inside the ring of guards, with Tyrest at the other end. The mech beside him that Ratchet recognized as Star Saber. Now if there was ever been a mech you could accuse of “moral depravity”, Star Saber was definitely a candidate. He had a sword already in hand, out of its sheath.

“Tyrest! I am here to meet your challenge!” Drift yelled. “Is this your champion?”

“Star Saber of Sistex will fight for me,” Tyrest said. “And who will fight for you, my Prime?”

Ratchet longed to rip those words out of his mouth, Tyrest voiced them with such contempt. Instead, he went to Drift’s shoulders and undid the clasps of his cape so that he could walk forward free of it. “I will fight for myself,” Drift announced. “But is there no one else you want to call to your side, Tyrest? Surely one champion is not enough for you? Why, you have graced me with so many champions in recent weeks, surely you must have more willing to stand for you today?”

“I do not know what you mean, my Prime,” Tyrest said.

“Your assassins,” Drift said, striding into the center of the space. “I have their bodies still, the keepers of the palace mortuary are professional to a fault. The council could come and see them at any time.”

“I have not - I don’t have _assassins_ ,” Tyrest stuttered.

“Did you decide to do this in the open because the rest of your agents had died trying already?” Drift asked lightly. “I did mean to keep some of them to interrogate, but I’m afraid they seem to have been under orders to turn their swords on themselves rather than risk capture…”

“You cannot expect anyone to believe this nonsense,” Tyrest said.

“I believe the Prime,” Ratchet said. “I have seen the work of your assassins with my own eyes, Tyrest.” He stepped forward and swept the cloak over Drift’s head to wreath him in shadow, as he flicked on a UV flashlight with his other hand. The scars across Drift’s new body, reforged only months earlier when he accepted the Matrix, shone like the streaks of meteors across the sky.

When Drift had confessed to Ratchet earlier that the stab wound wasn’t the first time he’d been hurt, only the first time he’d been hurt so badly that he couldn’t patch the wound himself, Ratchet had been furious. The crowd here in the plaza was shocked into silence instead.

Ratchet dropped the cape and stepped in front of Drift. “Drift, my Prime, you have fought for yourself long enough.” He turned on the crowd. “Did you not swear an oath! Did you not swear to serve your Prime! Will you stand here and watch this traitor plunge our planet into chaos again, because he cannot let go of the past! I, for one, will not stand by. Tyrest, if you want to murder my Prime, you will have to kill me first.”

“Ratchet, no,” Drift said, grabbing him by the elbow and trying to pull him back. “Don’t do this.”

“He’s right,” someone said, and they stepped out of the line of guards to stand by Ratchet’s side. His optics widened in surprise. It was Chromia, bodyguard to the council-member Windblade. She wasn’t looking at Ratchet, she was looking across the circle to the councilmembers, to Windblade. “This isn’t a duel of honor. This is an assassination attempt, in daylight.”

Windblade stepped forward to join them. “I swore an oath to protect this planet and my people. That includes my Prime. Tyrest, you must answer to these charges.”

Once by one, the council-members stepped forward, unwilling to be the one to stand at the sidelines and fail to renounce the possibility of treason. As the crowd pressed tighter, Drift murmured in Ratchet’s audial: “I could have taken him, you know.”

“Maybe you could. But I’m not risking you like that.”

* * *

Someone must have spoken to the performers, because the music at this dance was noticeably subdued compared to the uptempo the Prime tended to favor. Someone. Certainly not Ratchet, who the entire palace knew had forbade the Prime from dancing at any of the evening dances over the last month while he had been “recuperating”.

Drift kept finding him along the outside edges of the crowd and rolling his optics at the music. Ratchet just smiled back, as if he had nothing to do with anything. Which he didn’t. Obviously. He was just enjoying the evening, speaking with Rung and Skids about the latest news from the colonies.

“I had heard that Velocitron would be sending an envoy for the - oh,” Rung said, interrupting himself. “I think someone’s looking for you, Ratchet.”

Ratchet turned around to find Drift walking towards him, hands spread in what could only be an invitation. “Oh no, I don’t think so,” Ratchet said, ducking behind Skids.

“My Medic, are you trying to hide from me?” Drift asked, half-laughing. “I was just about to invite you to dance.”

“I know what you were about to do, that’s why I’m hiding. You know I can’t dance.” They’d tried it the night before, in Drift’s apartments.

“And that’s why it’s so convenient that the music tonight is so somniferous, come on Ratchet, it’s so slow practically the only thing you need to do is sway in time.”

Ratchet tried to protest further, but Rung and Skids betrayed him, shoving him forwards into the arms of his Prime. And that was how he ended up in the center of the circle of dancers. It was much more frightening than throwing himself in between Drift and Star Saber had been. At least then, the worst thing he had to worry about was death.

“Relax,” Drift said, shifting closer to Ratchet so that they were cheek to cheek. “I promise this is the only time I’ll make you dance in front of the crowd.”

“Then why are you doing it today?” Ratchet asked.

“Because I am going to ask you to be my consort,” Drift said. “And if you say yes, I want to kiss you in front of everyone. Just this once.”

“Yes,” Ratchet said. “Wait, would I have to give up being your Medic?”

“Too late! You already said yes,” Drift teased “No, Ratchet, I don’t think anyone could stop you from being my medic.”

“You are correct, my Prime,” Ratchet agreed.

“Then I think we have an announcement to make for the crowd,” Drift said.

**Author's Note:**

> As always with my one-day fics, there's probably typos and grammar things I missed. Even moreso than usual here: it's 11:30 PM as I'm posting this because this took all goddamn day to write. This is possibly the most words I've written in one day since high school. I'll probably clean it up a little tomorrow.
> 
> And as always, I love comments and you can find me online @notwhelmedyet. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed 💕


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